


Gilgamesh, Diarmuid and Saber In: Kinktober

by goldenteaset



Category: Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Aphrodisiacs, Bisexual Character, Blood Drinking, Bondage, Competition, Crossdressing, Erotic Tickling, Established Relationship, F/M, Gothic, Kinktober 2020, Laughter During Sex, M/M, Maids, Multi, One Shot Collection, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Secretaries, Sexual Content, Sexual Roleplay, Shibari, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26821396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenteaset/pseuds/goldenteaset
Summary: A collection of unconnected oneshots wherein two kings and one knight get to resolve their sexual tension...before creating it anew. (Gilgamesh is nothing if not a master tease, after all.)Week 1: Role-playWeek 2: TicklingWeek 3: ShibariWeek 4: Edging
Relationships: Arturia Pendragon | Saber/Original Character(s), Diarmuid Ua Duibhne | Lancer/Gilgamesh | Archer, Gilgamesh | Archer/Artoria Pendragon | Saber, Gilgamesh/Arturia Pendragon/Diarmuid Ua Duibhne | Gilgamesh/Saber/Lancer
Comments: 30
Kudos: 37





	1. Roleplay

**Author's Note:**

> I needed a way to keep Gil, Diarmuid and Saber from resolving the UST in On Chivalry's Blade before it was time, and this is my solution! (The course of writing never did run smooth, but with luck this will help with Chapter 6 and on.)
> 
> The prompts were taken from this Kinktober 2020 list: https://twitter.com/jijidraws/status/1303072895917203457
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Fate/Zero.

“Remember, Ms. Pendragon—your signatures are due at 3 pm sharp,” Gilgamesh says over his shoulder, his gold-framed glasses glinting under the overhead light. He still hasn’t buttoned the top buttons of his blouse.

“Yes, thank you,” Saber says, shuffling the papers on her desk. As the new CEO of Pendragon Inc., she has much to take care of. Business ventures to agree to, building construction to oversee… _Even the smallest help with remembering when items are due will be useful. That’s the joint excuse, at least._

“Of course.” The carpet might muffle the telltale _click_ of Gilgamesh’s heels now as he heads out to the front desk of her office, but once he leaves for lunch she’ll hear them all the way down the marble-floored hall.

 _Many would claim he’s too impudent to be my secretary. But…_ She sneaks a covert glance at his very short crimson pencil skirt, the black nylons underneath both concealing and emphasizing the muscled curvature of his legs. _…Somehow, I can’t bring myself to chastise his behavior. Not yet, at least._

At the same time, part of her is wary. Gilgamesh is himself a new hire—and from her rivals, Uruk Industries. He could be a spy. In that case…

“Wait,” she says, as Gilgamesh pauses with his hand at the cherrywood door. “What are _you_ doing in between now and 3 pm sharp?”

Gilgamesh turns around to face her, resting his back against the door. His crimson eyes glitter with some private amusement. “What indeed? I was hoping to secure an alliance for you with the Fianna company before lunch, which leaves me with…” He checks his slim gold wristwatch. “…Two hours to spare.”

_‘Alliance’…no doubt humans call them something else now, but we should use what we understand._

“Two hours—I see.” Saber sets her elbows on the table and laces her fingers together before her face—the better to hide her expression. “And what will you do to obtain such an alliance?”

“For you, Ms. Pendragon?” His lips turn up at the corners like a cat having found the perfect patch of sun. “Oh, anything you desire.”

“‘Anything’, you say.” Saber starts to work on the signatures—it’s best to be punctual in these situations. “That is quite vague, for…a secretary.” She finishes one signature, sets the paper aside, and scrawls out the next. “Please explain further.”

“As you wish,” Gilgamesh purrs, strolling back over—just in time for Saber’s desk phone to ring. He snatches it up in an instant, twirling the black cord about his elegant finger as he cradles the receiver to his ear. “Hello, Pendragon Inc.; this is Ms. Pendragon’s secretary speaking. Ah, you’re from Lot 31—how fares construction?”

Saber lets him do his job and turns her attention to the signatures, her ballpoint pen looping efficiently through the hills and valleys of cursive. It’s not that different from using her royal seal in Britain. Every so often, she reaches out and strokes Gilgamesh’s hip, smiling at the thick slope of muscle playing under his skirt, warming her palm.

A low, pleased chuckle. “Not yet, Ms. Pendragon,” he whispers, blocking the receiver with his hand. “You have paperwork!”

“Mm.” She gives his plump backside a squeeze anyway, chuckling at his stifled hum of pleasure. _Then_ she returns to her duties.

“…Very good. Continue with your work, then!” The cord goes taut for a moment, as if he’s squeezing it to vent annoyance. A mere moment of acting for his audience. “Yes, _yes_ , the expenses will be covered thoroughly. Goodbye.”

Saber looks up as Gilgamesh sets the phone back on its rightful cradle. “Thank you. Now, the alliance with the Fianna Company awaits.”

“That it does.” Gilgamesh scoops up the papers she’s already signed. “I hope you find my efforts satisfactory, Ms. Pendragon.” With a rakish tilt of his glasses, he sashays out of her office and into his.

 _I wonder…what ‘efforts’ will he perform for my sake?_ She mulls it over as she takes care of the remaining signatures. Every now and then her eyes flick to the door, knowing that the answers lie within easy reach.

Gilgamesh pokes his head through the door again, making her jump slightly in surprise. “Was there something else you required, Ms. Pendragon?”

“Yes.” Saber’s pulse quickens with curiosity. “I would like to sit in on your…alliance efforts.”

There’s a flicker of surprise on his face. Then he smiles, the expression far more suggestive than it would be under proper circumstances. “Then we shall meet in your office. But on one condition: you mustn’t object to my methods, nor move until I say so. Otherwise, the plan will be ruined.”

Saber looks at him askance. “Should I have _reason_ to object?”

He tilts his head, still smiling. “Judging by your longing glance at my skirts earlier...and your greedy touch...on the contrary.” With a low, sultry laugh, he closes the door behind him.

“Damn him,” Saber mutters, annoyed at the lack of force behind her own words.

\---

Saber doesn’t have to wait long before Gilgamesh returns with the Fianna representative: an equally handsome man named Diarmuid. They contrast quite charmingly with each other—crimson eyes versus gold, straight blond hair and dusky curls, bronzed skin and a mellower tan, a blouse and skirt versus a more predictable black business suit. (Save for the hint of Diarmuid’s muscles bulging through the cotton, that is.)

“Good day, Ms. Pendragon,” Diarmuid says, bowing formally at the waist. “I’m here on behalf of my company to make an alliance.”

The two men take their seats opposite each other—giving Saber a perfect view—and the alliance talks begin.

The terms Diarmuid sets are good, but still in need of negotiation. No doubt these are only the beginning offers, and he has something more advantageous in mind. While normally Saber would take care of such things, today she’ll hold to her promise and let Gilgamesh handle it.

“Of course, you mustn’t have anticipated these terms would be agreed to without argument,” Gilgamesh says, his nylon stockings emitting an electric rasp as he crosses his legs at the ankles. (A foolish choice, since now Diarmuid can clearly view beneath his skirt.) “Indeed, I find it curious that one so pleasing to behold would be offered up for this role…”

“A mere coincidence,” Diarmuid objects, already growing flushed with annoyed embarrassment.

“But your glances are not,” Gilgamesh says smugly, and Saber boggles as he unbuttons his blouse further, revealing new territory for his audience's eyes to map. “I take it the photo I sent along with my request was to your liking?”

The column of Diarmuid’s throat bobs as he gulps. “I…that’s…well…” Any retaliation dies on his lips, his gaze remaining firm on Gilgamesh’s bared chest.

“You’re not the only mongrel who’s been brought panting to my feet, of course,” Gilgamesh continues, brazenly slipping his fingers through the gap in his blouse and fondling the full bounty there. “But you’re _certainly_ one of the more lovely to behold. In fact…I admit you’re awakening my more carnal needs.” He glances at Saber and licks his lips. “I trust that will be permitted, Ms. Pendragon?”

“If you must,” Saber manages to say.

“Thank you,” Gilgamesh breathes, and wastes no time rolling his plump, rosy-pink nipples between his fingers. “Both of you, look well! But you mustn’t touch.”

Saber doubts Diarmuid could possibly hold to that second order for long; his trousers are already beginning to tent. _Fortunately, I’m of sterner stuff._

Gilgamesh’s knees draw up to his waist as he continues his caresses. Even though he never moves a hand beneath his skirt, it’s still clear that his arousal is tenting the fabric wantonly. Each longing breath makes his chest heave with exertion.

“Gilgamesh,” Diarmuid says plaintively, his fingers twisting in the fabric of his trousers, “Please…if you would touch me, I’d adjust our terms.”

Under any other circumstance, such an easy acquiescence would be punished with a demotion. Here, however, the stakes are more carnal.

“How agreeable,” Gilgamesh praises with a smile, sliding to all fours and crawling toward him, his skirt swaying with carnal rhythm. “I assure you, I’ll make that ‘ _adjustment_ ’ worth your while.”

Saber fidgets in her seat as she listens to the harsh growl of a zipper being pulled down, and watches Gilgamesh ease Diarmuid’s thick shaft, crimson as a brand, free of its confines. _Even from a distance, it’s an impressive size. If only I could taste it…but no. My secretary must act on my behalf._

“Ms. Pendragon…” Diarmuid’s curls bounce as he tilts his head back in ecstasy. “…Your secretary is— _mm_ —very skilled.” He gently cups the back of Gilgamesh’s head, stroking his hair in a coaxing, gentle rhythm.

“Quite,” Saber says, tugging at her tie with tense fingers.

From between Diarmuid's legs, Gilgamesh’s head bobs slightly as he savors his taste. The lewd melody of his gentle licks are as loud as the cars outside.

“You’re already drenched, mongrel,” Gilgamesh purrs proudly, working Diarmuid into further hardness with fingers and tongue. “I see you were awaiting this with bated breath!”

Diarmuid squirms deliciously in his seat. “Apologies. Your mouth, it’s so…!” His words dissolve into heavy, yearning pants as Gilgamesh resumes his relentless teasing.

Saber can’t deny that she’s feeling a hint of desire herself. _While Gilgamesh_ did _say not to touch…he never mentioned self-pleasure. In that case—_

—Gilgamesh glances over his shoulder at her and smirks. “I take it you find this too distant, Ms. Pendragon? Very well.” He looks back to Diarmuid and snaps his fingers. “Follow me, mongrel—on all fours. We have someone else to attend to…if you wish for this alliance to go through, that is.”

Knowing what pleasure is on its way, Saber smiles and spreads her thighs. Impudent this secretary of hers may be—but why punish such rewarding behavior now? She can always do so later, when she plays the stern-but-affectionate governess.

Gilgamesh and Diarmuid kneel before her, their hot, overlapping breaths playing along her trouser-clad thighs. Gazing down on them, she can see the shadows of their arousals inches from rubbing against the carpet, and the passion smoldering in their eyes. _Will I ever truly grow accustomed to such fire aimed at me? And is it more potent than usual?_

“What a lovely scent you have, Ms. Pendragon,” Gilgamesh says, nuzzling his nose into the seam of her trousers and breathing in deep enough to send hot lust throbbing between her legs.

Diarmuid licks his plump lips, his pupils full and dark. “I would savor Ms. Pendragon as well. May I?”

When Gilgamesh leans back to give him room, he brazenly takes her zipper between his teeth and tugs it down, inch by sweet inch—only for it to fall from his lips with a hungry moan as her scent wafts up to his nose. "Oh, _Gods_...!" Though her practical black underwear still shields her sex from view, there is no hiding her musk, nor the eager pulsing of her arousal.

“If you truly wish to ally with us, mongrel, you’ll need to please Ms. Pendragon well.” Gilgamesh reaches between Diarmuid’s legs and gives him a single, agonizingly slow pump from base to tip before leaving him quivering and unsatisfied once more. “I have faith in your efforts as well.”

“If you two _do_ please me as thoroughly as you claim,” Saber decrees with a smile, “then I shall do the same for you. Agreed?”

Her lovers’ mouths are already watering at the thought. They immediately set to work, easing her trousers down her legs and tossing them to the floor.

“On my signal,” she says in a whisper. “Three…two…one…” 

Perhaps Gilgamesh was right to suggest these lovers’ games. They’re more entertaining than expected.

“… _Begin._ ” 


	2. Tickling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilgamesh has an endurance challenge for Diarmuid and Saber--one of pleasure. Can they reach the end of this strange gauntlet? Will they _want_ to?

Gilgamesh has to admit, he’s impressed by how Lancer and Saber handled that vile creature calling itself Caster. So impressed, in fact, that he can see a way to relieve himself of the boredom that’s plagued him since the very beginning of this Holy Grail War.

His plan is simple: since _clearly_ his fellow Knight Servants deserve better Masters than the ones they have, he renders the mongrels (and in Saber’s case, any mongrel he thinks is associated with her Master) unconscious and stuffs them into the depths of his Treasury. Just close enough to serve as mana batteries for their betters until his entertainment is done.

(All of this is done with a few portals. There’s little need to exert himself yet.)

Once that has been arranged, he changes out of spirit form and strolls through the foggy forest clearing over to Lancer and Saber, who are still beginning to comprehend what just happened.

“Well done,” he says, applauding softly to emphasize his point. “Now _that_ was a battle that meant something…unlike the rest of these tepid skirmishes.”

“What do you want, Archer?” The wind sheathed around Saber’s blade writhes in time with her temper.

“Simply put, I wish to reward you both with a challenge worthy of your status as Heroic Spirits.” Gilgamesh smirks at the shocked faces before him. “You _should_ be honored…humph. I shall take your silence as awe instead!”

“Is that challenge why our Masters have gone missing?” Lancer asks quietly, his intense bronze eyes looking almost gold in the moonlight.

“Indeed; they are safe in my possession. And who knows? Perhaps you will wish them to remain there, once this challenge is concluded.”

“We shall see about _that_ ,” Saber snaps, looking ready for anything. “State your purpose, Archer!”

“Oh, it’s quite simple. An endurance challenge, to be precise—but one of pleasure, rather than pain.” Gilgamesh opens two gilded portals and extends a hand invitingly. “I _did_ say you two deserved a reward!”

It’s hard to say what captured their attention more—their Masters’ safety or the promise of pleasure. But even so, Lancer and Saber step forward, endearing determination in their eyes.

 _Very_ good.

\---

“Before we begin, do you two have a distaste for being restrained?” Gilgamesh looks over his shoulder at Lancer and Saber as he brushes a rosy sheer curtain to one side.

Lancer shakes his head, and Saber admits softly “I have never been in such a predicament.”

“In that case, if you become upset, you must inform me immediately.” Gilgamesh holds the curtain open for them as they warily step inside, and smiles at their awed reactions to what awaits them. “I told you this was to be a pleasant endurance challenge. _Now_ do you believe me?”

Saber circles the matching crimson Magecraft arrays, staring at the cuniform that she cannot read carved into the stone floor. “What are these for?”

“Our pleasure. Once you are inside—and bound—the endurance challenge will begin.” Gilgamesh’s mouth waters at the thought of these two beauties writhing in desire for him.

Lancer frowns. “Yet they appear uncomfortable, Archer.”

“That’s a fair observation.” Gilgamesh snaps his fingers, and the cuniform and circles are covered up with linen pillows twice the size of even Lancer. “Fear not, they will still function this way!”

Saber’s pride compels her to sit down in the right circle, while Lancer takes the left shortly thereafter. The ornate glass lamps hanging from the ceiling and walls cast their lovely features in soft, sunset orange. They watch, eyes unwavering, as Gilgamesh takes his seat before them upon his favorite golden throne, legs crossed and a stone tablet appearing in his hands.

“This should be a good beginning,” he says with a smile, running his fingers over the first lines of cuniform.

The spell and arrays glow to life in a burst of pale-red light, but not bright enough to blind. Lancer and Saber remain calm even as they’re lifted off their feet, their arms lifted above their heads into matching gold cuffs. After all, they were forewarned.

“Well, Archer?” Lancer lifts his head and smirks confidently. “Where is this ‘pleasure’ you pro—”

Gilgamesh strokes his thumb along another spell. “How impudent.” A gilded assortment of tendrils topped with pure-white feathers slither out of the arrays, surrounding Lancer and Saber.

Saber jerks her head from side to side as the feathers graze her cheeks and ears. “What _is_ this?” she snaps, her face already reddening at the too-gentle touch.

Lancer chuckles as his muscled neck and arms are caressed, the feathers dipping into the exposed, soft hollows of his underarms. “It tickles,” he says, his voice dissolving into laughter again. “Is—is _this_ all we have to endure?”

“Oh, on the contrary!” Gilgamesh rests his chin in his hand and drinks in the sight without restraint. “Simply put, it’s what you must endure for now.”

Saber makes a soft huff of amusement—possibly from bravado, or two feathers’ frenzied dance under her chin. “You should…have more faith in us!”

“Oh? Very well.” Gilgamesh activates another spell and smiles at the disembodied hands of red velvet that pop into existence to crawl over his challengers’ armor: unbuttoning here, lifting fabric there. “Enjoy the fruits of your pride, Saber!”

And he settles back to wait.

\---

Lancer writhes in agonized pleasure, his taut nipples and the dark stain of his desire plainly visible under his forest-green armor. Alas, his charming chuckles are muffled now. When his laughter grew so unrestrained he threatened to bite his tongue, Gilgamesh had to press a ball gag into his mouth for his own safety. That he looks delicious with saliva trickling down his chin as he continues shaking with mirth is a pleasant bonus. 

Gilgamesh grins smugly as the floating hands tear Lancer’s top away in tatters, giving the feathers yet more areas to attack. His armpits are flushed crimson now, and his thigh-high boots lie discarded on the floor, his feet raised up to be tickled to the same numbness as his bobbing torso. “Curl your toes all you wish, mongrel—they’re a tempting target!”

Speaking of which…he looks to Saber and chuckles. Oh, how _delectable_ the King of Knights looks, her armor discarded beyond her reach and the skirts of her beautiful battle-gown lifted up to show the feathers’ slow and gossamer assault on the budding flower between her trembling thighs. _Her_ laughter is softer than Lancer’s, punctuated with longing whines that send a lustful ache straight to Gilgamesh’s waist.

“I—I can still—!” Saber’s hands flex uselessly in their bonds as two hands tenderly unveil her small but plump breasts for Lancer and Gilgamesh’s eyes. In moments, several feathers surround them, fluttering too-lightly against her curves and firm, pink areolae. “— _Still_ —”

“Indeed. Perhaps I should have Lancer’s arousal caressed instead of yours?”

With a single spell, Saber is left crimson-faced and panting in shock, the feathers sticky with her desire now swirling around Lancer’s waist.

Lancer moans frantically around the gag, his hips thrusting eagerly as the hands tug his trousers down to his ankles. As Gilgamesh suspected, he’s quite large: plump and crimson with lust. Carefully, the feathers tease his swollen head, the delicate sheath of foreskin, the fullness of his sac.

“How does it feel, mongrel?” Gilgamesh asks playfully. “Being painted by Saber’s own juices?”

Lancer’s eyelashes flutter as he surrenders to the new pleasure, his arousal bobbing endearingly.

To sweeten the temptation, Gilgamesh sheds his armor in a burst of gold flecks, cupping his growing arousal with his free hand. “ _Much_ better,” he sighs, sliding his thick cap of foreskin up and down the head in a leisurely rhythm.

In a gesture of goodwill, he sends a crimson hand back between Saber’s thighs, to fondle her with all the teasing attention Lancer’s receiving. She greedily rocks into the gentle fingers, her breasts swaying as they continue to be tickled.

“I wonder…which of us will climax first?” Gilgamesh licks his lips. “Of course, the more pressing question is this: how many can you two withstand?”

The former question receives an unexpected answer: Lancer twitches and shudders, thick ropes of creamy white seed bursting forth onto the cushion in an unrelenting torrent. _What an amount…!_ The crimson fabric is now drenched dark. _It seems I’m not the only child of a fertility god here._ His ragged groan of relief behind his gag is enough to make Gilgamesh want to swallow him down to the root and drink up every last drop.

“Well done,” Gilgamesh says—and gives him mere moments of respite before the feathers tickle him back to aching stiffness again. “Now then…for Saber, perhaps you require more _intimate_ attention.” He rises from his throne and strolls over to her, the tablet still in hand.

Saber’s shoulders stiffen as he comes to a halt before her. “Whatever you do, Archer, I shall endure it!”

“Perhaps you shall.” Gilgamesh chuckles and kneels just outside the bounds of the circle, casting another spell. Saber’s body floats closer to him—close enough that he can touch her without fear of the circle’s spell breaking. “However…I suspect you would find giving in _much_ more pleasurable.”

Saber remains unruffled. “Is that so? Then do your worst!”

“Of course.” Gilgamesh idly trails the very tips of his fingers over Saber’s knees, giving the hollows behind them the softest of tickles before moving on. “If you’re splayed open…yes, that will do quite nicely.”

Saber doesn’t bother to struggle as she floats before him, her legs open and bent into an erotic “M” shape that leaves the center of her desire perfectly exposed. After all, she _did_ order him to do his worst; he has every right to act accordingly. It’s disappointing to have her hot, muscled thighs barely twitch under his hands, though.

Another spell glows to life, and he grins at the delicate makeup brush resting in his open palm. “I assume the feathers are not pleasing you very well. Perhaps this will achieve better results?” Leaning forward, he slowly, delicately traces along her plump petals dewed with lust, admiring the pitch-black horse hairs as they part and rejoin in steady rhythm on the rosy-red terrain.

Saber’s hips shudder at this new touch, and a low hissing sound escapes her throat.

Gilgamesh takes his time licking his lips, allowing her a glimpse of what he has to offer. “I can almost see it peeking out…here, let me lift up the hood for you.”

Lancer grunts longingly past his gag in harmony with Saber’s unobstructed whimper, her heated gaze drinking in the sight and sensations of Gilgamesh easing her hood back to expose the aching little bud beneath. Once it’s exposed to the hot air, Gilgamesh strokes the brush across her reddening jewel—tiny little flickers of pleasure that send Saber into a burst of charming giggles.

“A-Archer, you…!” Saber tries and fails to hold in her laughter, her belly hopping in an endearing rhythm.

It deserves to be kissed. So he does, trailing ticklish, fluttering kisses around her firm muscles, flicking his tongue into the soft indent of her navel, reveling in the salty tang of her skin. “What a lovely laugh you have, Saber.” Gilgamesh dips down and breathes hot air over her sensitive sex, coaxing more aroused mirth from her. “I would listen to it a thousand times over and be unsatisfied.”

Saber’s thighs squirm and thrash uselessly as he continues the brush’s playful torment. “What about…Lancer’s…?”

“Oh, his is equally charming! On that note…” Gilgamesh picks up the tablet.

Another spell, and Lancer is floating on all fours, the feathers now attacking the backs his thighs and his admirably-plump rear without restraint. His muffled laughter has a hysterical edge to it now—most likely because he’s never had someone delve far enough to reach the little furl of muscle currently sending itching pleasure through his veins.

“Just imagine, Saber…you could have achieved the same delights Lancer is wallowing in now, if you only allowed yourself release.” The brush teases Saber’s bud with relentless precision, while Gilgamesh amuses himself with grazing his lips and tongue along her thigh. Closer, closer…but never close enough.

That doesn’t seem to matter, though: Shudders wrack Saber from her toes to her fingertips, her release quaking through her body. Her head falls back in a silent, primal scream, and Gilgamesh laughs in delight as her savory nectar rains down on his face.

“Yes, that’s it, Saber. Free yourself of your old chains, and pursue the sweetness of pleasure with us…!”

After a few moments of sweet aftershocks, Saber’s head lolls back, her eyes clouded with lust. “I have endured one release, just as Lancer has,” she says once she catches her breath. “What of the next?”

Gil wipes his face and sucks his fingers clean digit by digit, savoring the tart taste of her on his tongue. “Mm, delicious.” He lolls his tongue about his little finger for a moment more before stopping. “…Where were we? Oh, yes, release. There will be more. You may require a firmer touch than mere feathers, which I will gladly provide…in a moment.”

Saber’s brows furrow, until she looks over at Lancer. “Yes, Lancer requires your attention as well. I would be remiss if I hoarded you to myself.”

Gilgamesh smirks up at her. “And yet you desire to?”

Saber smirks back and shakes her head. “A challenge is hardly a challenge if you play favorites, Archer.”

“…True. Very well: I have a method of tiding you over.”

This spell summons a sex toy from the modern era, a wand-like contraption with a charming top, rounded and pink. As soon as it floats between Saber’s drenched thighs, it turns on at the lowest setting and buzzes against her sensitive flesh.

“There,” Gilgamesh says with satisfaction, as Saber gasps and grinds her soaked flower against the vibrator, “that should please you. And now, round two begins in earnest…!”

\---

Removing Lancer’s gag after his sixth orgasm was a good decision.

“Gods, Archer, _please_ ,” he begs, his amber eyes unable to look away from Gilgamesh lazily stroking his thick, slick hardness inches from his mouth.

“Was the sensation of my seed soaking you from head to toe not enough, mongrel?”

Lancer shakes his head. Thick rivulets of pale seed shiver and drip down his chest, his belly, pooling at his thighs. “And yet…Saber, she’s…”

“Mm. Perhaps I ‘went a bridge too far’, as they say these days.” Gilgamesh smiles at Saber squirming and giggling in the grip of four hands holding her legs open, two buzzing vibrators at her bud and two exceedingly-fluffy feathers each pleasuring her front and back entrances into a succulent, aching mess. “However…women can wallow in pleasure for _at least_ eight hours, and here we are at nine.”

Lancer gulps. “Nine…” He attempts to regain composure. “Surely you intend to please her yourself, as you did before?”

“Of course.” Gilgamesh smirks and has Lancer and Saber float closer to each other. Both remain in the air, now able to see Gilgamesh and each other face to face. “As you requested, I shall begin with Saber.”

The vibrators disappear, leaving only the feathers to their wicked work. Saber stares at Gilgamesh in aroused confusion as he brings his thumb to Lancer’s lips. “Archer,” she murmurs hazily, “what are you…?”

“Suck, Lancer,” Gilgamesh replies, and chuckles as Lancer immediately engulfs his thumb in the hot cavern of his mouth. “Yes, very good. You must drench it thoroughly for Saber’s sake.”

Lancer is a dutiful knight with softly gripping lips and an eager, wet tongue. In other words, he turns Gilgamesh’s thumb into a soaked mess of hot saliva in moments. It’s enough to make him wish he’d taken him up on that unspoken offer…but that can wait.

“Wonderful.” Gilgamesh eases his thumb past Lancer’s lips with a salacious _pop_. “Now to put your efforts to good use.”

The feathers vanish. Saber’s brows furrow is disappointment—only to shoot up in pleased surprise when he brings the pad of his thumb to her softened sex. “ _Ah_ …!” A heated gasp escapes her throat as he caresses her trembling bud.

“Well, Saber? Do you prefer my touch to the feathers’?” Gently, he brushes his lips against hers, tasting her sweetness.

“I… _mm_.” Saber melts into his kiss, her hips rolling in time with his hand. Then she pulls away and says “They were controlled by you. In that case…they _are_ your touch.”

“An excellent answer,” Gilgamesh replies, to hide the warmth spreading inside his chest at her honesty. “In that case…eh?” Something’s poking at his side.

On further inspection, it’s Lancer’s delectable hardness, back to its former glory. The man himself is flushed and flustered, his thick, kohl-dark eyelashes lowered slightly. “Apologies. It’s just…you two are so beautiful, I…”

“Oh, I take praise of any variety,” Gilgamesh assures him, reaching out with his free hand to tease Lancer’s slick shaft. “And I can attend to both of you with ease. You see?”

Saber stares at him and Lancer with captivated eyes, her reddened lips slightly parted. “Lancer, I would kiss you…may I?”

Lancer sighs heatedly, his head already dipping toward hers. Their cowlicks tangle together like clusters of ivy. Their hesitant, shy kiss takes a turn for the carnal as Gilgamesh puts a bit more force in his strokes, reveling in their hot juices clinging to his fingers.

“This place is drenched in your lewd scent,” he praises them softly, dancing his fingers about Lancer’s leaking crown and delighting in the low, muffled joy of Lancer laughing against Saber’s sweet lips. “Truly, I could grow drunk off it—and your laughter—in moments…”

Saber giggles and throbs deliciously against his thumb, her braided bun threatening to tumble loose in a waterfall of flax. “D-Don’t be absurd…!”

“I speak truth.”

“…D-Do as you like.” Saber sucks at Lancer’s lips as if he’s the sweetest fruit she’s ever tasted and she’s dying of hunger. “Lancer, _now_ , deeper…!”

Gilgamesh chuckles as his challengers’ dawn-pink tongues join together in a delicate, erotic dance, periodically broken by their shared mirth. “And to think, we could prolong this challenge for days!” He lowers his voice to a heated, sticky whisper meant for their flushed ears. “You need only ask, and I shall comply.”

As expected, it takes a moment for his words to penetrate their fogged minds. Then Lancer breaks the kiss and asks hoarsely “Would that mean…f-further tickling?”

“As you like.” Gilgamesh softens his touch still further, pleased at the helpless giggles and squirming he receives in return. “I told you this challenge would be a worthy test of your endurance…and so far, you have passed admirably. So…shall we move on to round three? This time will involve increased sensitivity, up to a thousand percent compared to your usual state of being—that is, _if_ you believe you can survive it.”

He lets their minds wander over the possibilities of that “increase”. Saber looks down at her drenched thighs, her heavy breathing causing her breasts to bounce invitingly. Lancer’s neck and chest flush an even deeper crimson; he’s already overflowing in Gilgamesh’s palm, his erection twitching with an urgent need for release.

“…Please.”

“What was that, Saber? Your voice is so quiet, and your flower so drenched with nectar, I couldn’t quite make that out.”

“P-Please,” Lancer says instead, loud and clear and eager, “begin round three.”

Saber nods with equal enthusiasm, her emerald eyes shining brightly in contrast to the crimson of her cheeks.

“As you wish,” Gilgamesh says, retracting his hands for a moment to pick up the tablet again. The spell’s glow summons two gold pitchers as tall and wide as Lancer, filled to their glittering brims with aphrodisiac oil intense enough to drive even Gilgamesh’s treasured friend into a month-long frenzy of lust.

The scent of the oil alone turns Lancer slack in his restraints, babbling erotic nonsense. Saber, it seems, is less susceptible: she’s doing her best to look the picture of prim composure, even as her toes curl up like they’re her last line of defense.

“I _could_ have those hands from before rub this into your flesh…but I suspect you two would prefer my own.” Gilgamesh dips his hands into the pitchers, pulling them out soaked and dripping with thick, clinging heat. “After this, I have… _other_ methods of exquisite pleasure for you to savor. But of course, that can wait. We may take this round as leisurely as we desire…”

And the round three begins in earnest.


	3. Shibari

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid Alter wants to keep Gil and Saber safe from this farce of a Holy Grail War, and if he has to bind them like the precious gifts they are to achieve that goal, so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will fully admit that due to not having a lot of free time this week (thanks college), this became less shibari-focused than I would like. On the other hand: I finally got to write Diarmuid Alter for this pairing, which I've wanted to do for quite awhile! So you win some, you lose some. :D

“Lancer,” Saber grunts, as she and Archer are tossed at his feet, “what has come over you? Those women…these _bonds_ …you would’ve never done such things before!”

“Most likely, no. I was blinded back then. I couldn’t _comprehend_ what this Holy Grail War is truly for. Now, I know…and I have little interest in it.” The steel-toed tip of a boot nudges Archer’s bare chest. “Worry not, King of Heroes: these ropes are soft, and will leave no marks on your beautiful flesh. Call it a gift from my father, Aengus.”

“Excellent, you understand our worth!” Even blindfolded with black cloth and encased in an intricate spider’s web of knotted crimson rope, Archer manages to appear smug.

“Of course.” Diarmuid Alter smiles affectionately down at him. “After all, I’ve decided to protect you two with everything I have.”

“Protect us from _what_?” Saber wriggles about in her bonds, her hands tied behind her back flexing uselessly. The rope that crisscrosses along her white bodice frames her chest in an elegant diamond pattern without restricting her breathing—he would hate for her to come to harm after all this effort. “We are Servants; we came here to _fight_!”

“Indeed. However, if you wish to protect us from our dull Masters, by all means,” Archer drawls.

Diarmuid Alter rises from his chair and tenderly eases his hands under Saber’s waist. “Apologies, Saber, but I’m going to lift you. Archer will be next. My guests shouldn’t lie on the cold floor.”

Saber wisely doesn’t object—with her ankles bound to her thighs in row after row of looping knots, she cannot move on her own. In his arms, she feels light as down…and as warm. To think, if he’d obeyed his Master he would have slain this valiant king too soon.

“Why have you blindfolded us?” Saber asks, as Diarmuid Alter sets her down face-up on the king-sized bed Ayako (one of his ladies) bought for him. “Is there something you don’t wish us to see?”

“…Perhaps.” He picks up Archer with a grunt, wondering if perhaps he should have differentiated the ties on his guests’ legs a bit more. The ropes, combined with the heavy, dark-blue velvet trousers under Archer’s armor, adds more weight than expected. _That, or Archer is going limp to deter me…heh._

Archer’s breath tickles Diarmuid Alter’s ear as he sets him down beside Saber. In the rays of moonlight and neon shining in through the penthouse windows, their blond locks appear silver with flickers of gold filament. The silk sheets whisper invitingly under their flesh—and to keep himself in check, Diarmuid Alter resumes talking.

“In life, I gained a cruel reputation: a destroyer of marriages, a wanton cur without honor who broke sacred oaths and wedlock alike. A soiled knight.” He trails the tip of a finger over his Love Spot, feeling the curse he used to loathe pulse under his skin like a second heartbeat. An old friend. “I have spent hundreds of years, hundreds of Grail Wars, trying to restore my honor. But this Grail…it has given me another choice.”

Saber’s body tenses. “Another?”

“Yes. I could continue this exercise in futility and die miserable and broken far from the emerald fields of my home. _Or_ …I could embrace the soiled knight, and achieve peace.”

Archer’s muscled belly shakes as he laughs. “Oh, very good, Lancer—very good indeed! So _that_ explains the harem of ladies that bound us so.” He shifts his head as if trying to loosen the blindfold from his eyes. “Now, then, let us see the fruit of your decision!”

“Saber may look first.” Diarmuid Alter loosens the fabric before Saber’s eyes and smiles affectionately down at her shocked face. “Please, tell Archer what you see.”

Saber wets her lips, her eyes raking him as she struggles to describe it all. “…Hair and skin stark as snow. Eyes…the color of raw copper. Your armor, it’s—crimson, and indecent to the extreme. Baring your thighs and chest like that, how daring. I…” As if being lured like a moth to light, her gaze settles on his Love Spot. “…Oh, _Lancer_ …!”

Archer’s shoulders tense. “What is it?”

“My curse. You see...in order for my new powers to work, you must lust after me first. Before, she could brush it off with ease. I expected it would be the same now.” Out of consideration for her, he presses a thumb over his mole. “Instead…how does it feel, Saber?”

Saber’s breath comes in sharp pants, and her nipples are already poking out from beneath her bodice. “…I will endure this on my own,” she says, her firm voice wavering a bit. “You may as well show Archer your new appearance.”

“I could.” Diarmuid Alter smiles and crawls over to Archer, straddling his face with ease. “However, this should be more than enough.” After opening the front seam in his skin-tight, crimson armor, he laughs softly as Archer sucks in a ragged breath as the untamed, virile musk of his scent hits his nostrils.

“Mongrel…is this…?”

Diarmuid Alter rubs himself slowly against Archer’s trembling lips, dragging his heavy arousal from sac to crown. “Does my scent please you, Archer? I trust your judgement.”

A hesitant, probing flicker of tongue, so soft and wet. “…Let me taste you.”

“That isn’t an answer.” Still grinding against the King of Heroes, Diarmuid Alter fondles his stiff and aching nipples through his armor, conscious of Saber’s gaze hot on his skin. “ _Ah_ , Saber! If you stare at me like that any longer, I may have to devour you here and now.”

“…But Archer is straining through his trousers.” Saber’s objection is charmingly half-hearted. “Between the two of us, his position is more dire.”

“Rest assured, I have appetite enough for both of you!” He crawls forward a bit, to better peel away Archer’s trousers like he’s exposing the meat of a ripe fruit. The thick, flushed erection that greets him is delectable to look upon. And the scent itself, accentuated by the intense spice of myrrh perfume, ensures his swelling tip eases past Archer’s lips far quicker than he intended.

Beneath him, Archer moans with pleasure, his cheeks hollowing into a welcoming, forge-hot cavern. It appears he’s the easier of the two to sway. And why not? He _is_ a King who tasted every pleasure in the world; he would appreciate Diarmuid Alter’s choice.

“Archer, you smell so wonderful,” he whispers, just to see Archer swell up even more in response. “Heh. As I hoped, you love to be praised…good.” As slow and delicate as if he’s tasting the water of life, he licks Archer with all due reverence. “If you stay with me”—his tongue tingles as he flicks at the leaking head—“I’ll give you all the praise you deserve, and more!”

If the increasingly urgent moans around his erection are anything to go by, Archer won’t last long. While Diarmuid Alter has no qualms whatsoever with feeling the slick, hot seed of the King of Heroes sear his tongue and throat, he would rather ensure every drop of _his_ goes down smoothly.

So he eases himself in to the hilt, smiling around Archer’s velvet-sheathed hardness as delicious, reeling release bursts through him and drenches Archer’s mouth as thoroughly as he can manage. Over and over, as if pulling water from a well, he spends himself inside his King until he has nothing left to offer but low, rasping laughter. (One of the many perks of his demigod nature.)

“Lancer,” Saber murmurs, her voice just firm enough to mask the hint of yearning beneath.

Diarmuid Alter pulls back from Archer with a contented sigh. “Apologies for keeping you waiting, Saber.” He crawls over to her, checking carefully for any bruising. “I hope you aren’t harmed…”

Saber shakes her head, her emerald eyes glowing like emeralds in the dark. “Even if I was, I am used to pain.”

Diarmuid Alter clicks his tongue in annoyance. “You shouldn’t be. And I _will_ ensure your happiness here, until this Grail War concludes.”

A hissing rasp of breath. With him straddling her, his heat and scent and visage so close, her body can’t help but react—and yearn for him all the more.

“Lancer, I…I have need of you,” she says with the last vestiges of her pride.

“Where? Here?” Diarmuid kisses his way down her slender neck, tasting the hot tremble of her pulse. “Or perhaps here?” He follows the pattern of the ropes tied to her chest with his lips. For a time he loses his train of thought, too busy savoring the once-hidden delights of her breasts until she’s all but shoving them against his hot, loving tongue.

“Not… _just_ there…” Saber rolls her hips against his, and the message is clear.

“As you wish, my King.” He says her title like a caress, and follows it up with a literal one, his hand sweeping down between her legs to ardently worship the throbbing, warm flesh he finds there. “It’s my hope that when dawn breaks, we three will have a mutual agreement.”

“That may happen sooner than expected,” Archer says with a dry chuckle, his breathing noticeably heavier than before.

“Never mind that for now,” Saber growls impatiently. “Just…be firmer with me, Lancer!”

“Yes, mongrel…grant her the same pleasure you bestowed me.”

“Of course, my dears,” Diarmuid Alter purrs, his mind and heart unclouded for the first time in centuries. “All I ask is that you fall with me…until this farce of a Grail War is over.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 10/24/20: So I have some bad news...and good news that should outweigh the former! 
> 
> The bad news: I won't be able to have the final Kinktober prompt out by Sunday, because of coursework + what I had planned just wasn't working. Alas, these things do happen.
> 
> The good news: Ufotable's Halloween art came out and gave me an even better idea! And since we still have time until the end of the month, I'll work on the final prompt until then. (So in other words, it'll be out next week.) 
> 
> Thank you for your patience!


	4. Edging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arturia Pendragon comes into ownership of a strange, possibly-haunted castle full of sensual delights to torment and please her...and discovers it has other occupants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! It's probably a good thing Kinktober is limited to a single month, because this fic easily could have gone on without stopping for a long, long while. ^^; But every fic has to end at some point!
> 
> Edit 11/1/20: I thought I mentioned this when I first posted, but I guess not. D: SO: thank you to omgtabby for the idea of ex-nun Arturia being so buff because of helping the other nuns around the convent!

Arturia Pendragon stares out the carriage window as her new home draws ever closer, the pointed spires of the old, dark castle seeming intent to pierce the moon. A week back, when she received the notice of her sister Morgan leaving for Scotland, she didn’t know that she would be living her cloistered life as a nun behind almost as soon as she entered it. _Still…perhaps that was a good thing. I never did enjoy the convent’s meals._

Looking at the Fey Castle—a place she only saw once as a small child—it’s hard to believe that dinner will be waiting for her, let alone other people. But according to Morgan’s letter, there are indeed servants here “to serve your every whim and ensure you are well cared for”. Hopefully that will be true.

When the carriage winds its way through the jagged zig-zagging path that leads to the castle gate, Arturia gets her first proper glimpse of the scope of her new home. This place is _massive_ , all ancient, time-smoothed stone that towers up and up into the heavens.

“It seems cold,” she murmurs, holding her skirts carefully as she takes the creaking carriage steps onto the hard, packed earth.

“Oh, worry not, my Lady,” says the footman, grinning hospitably. “The castle is warm enough inside!”

Smiling back at him, she makes her way inside once the wrought-iron doors part for her without a sound. By contrast, her footsteps feel loud as thunder on the smooth walkway paved with stones. The noise helps her collect her thoughts and consider the path ahead.

 _According to Morgan’s letter, I have a ‘ritual’ to perform in a certain room. The details were unclear…but it appears to be a method of claiming this place._ She’s heard legends of Fey Castle, whispered by the other novice nuns: that this place is haunted by ghosts, vampires, or other such things that may or may not be feasible. Normally, she would scoff at that—but Morgan was a practical woman, and she wouldn’t mention rituals lightly.

“Welcome home, my Lady!”

Arturia is startled out of her thoughts by an assortment of servants bustling over to her: taking her black-veiled hat and royal blue cloak, guiding her through the wide, long hallways lined with somber paintings of the local moors, and finally bringing her to a huge candlelit bathing room not unlike Rome’s communal baths.

“The maids will assist you,” says a young man whose name she didn’t catch, and before she can ask him what it is, he ducks out, red-faced.

 _I may as well ring for the maids—oh!_ Arturia almost stumbles into the steaming pool behind her as a veritable troop of maids marches in. Their frilled headbands and aprons are starched white, and their blonde buns glisten like jewels in the candles’ glow. Unlike most maids Arturia’s seen, these ones have a striking beauty to them, even in how they lift their long black dresses and curtsy.

“We’re here to bathe and anoint you, my Lady,” the maid at the head of the troop says softly, her chocolate-brown eyes warm behind her glasses.

“Anoint…? I don’t understand.”

The maid frowns slightly. “Oh, dear…I see Lady Morgan was too vague in her letter. In short: for the ritual, we must anoint every inch of you with rose oil, to better ensure your comfort…and to please you.” She pauses, gazing at Arturia with concern. “That is, _would_ it please you, my Lady?”

“I do enjoy the scent of roses,” Arturia assures her. “I would like to finish this ritual soon, so that I may rest.”

The maids look to each other with obvious relief, and curtsy once more. “As our Lady wishes!”

By some miracle, they don’t crowd Arturia as they reverently strip the leather shoes and plain black mourning dress from her body. Rather, they each work in tandem: one works on the buttons flowing neatly along the curve of her back, allowing steamy air to kiss her bared skin, while two more carefully lift her feet one at a time to ease her shoes off. They have performed this task together a hundred times, and they know the motions well.

At the same time, Arturia can’t help but notice the intimacy of their gazes. They aren’t _lewd_ , like they’re inspecting meat at market, but…the passion and awe in their eyes burn her cheeks.

“My Lady, please step into the water, and we shall follow after,” the head maid says once Arturia is fully bare before them.

“Of course.” Arturia descends the smooth stone steps into the bath, sighing with relief as the heated water pleasantly sears the numbing irritation of travel from her flesh and bone. “This is wonderful…thank you.”

“You’re most welcome, my Lady,” the head maid says. Through the curtains of steam, Arturia can just make out the maids shedding their uniforms. “…Very good.” _Clap-clap._ “Places, everyone!”

The maids flow into the bath in a manner that reminds Arturia of water nymphs in paintings—sensual grace and alluring smiles. She expects them to surround her. They do, bearing soft soap, softer washcloths, and more compliments than she can handle. _It appears they held back earlier._

“Oh, my Lady, your hair is like silk in my hands!”

“My Lady, what beautiful eyes you have…seeing them every day will be a joy.”

“And your body is so elegantly muscled!” Hot, pillowy breasts press up against her back, lathered with slippery soap. “Did you do much penitence at the convent?”

“You’re embarrassing our Lady,” the head maid chides, trailing her soapy washcloth over Arturia’s flushing neck and breasts. “I have no doubt she was a model novice.”

“I assisted with hauling water, and other tasks involving physical strength,” Arturia explains primly.

“So _gallant_ …”

Heart pounding, Arturia pushes a maid’s hands away from her thighs. “I can wash there, have no fear of that…!”

“Of course, my Lady,” the maid says, her abashed expression framed by delicate little ringlets quite charming. “Then I shall wash your feet, as penitence!”

The other maids squeal in shocked delight as Arturia lifts one leg for inspection while remaining perfectly balanced on the other.

“How considerate, my Lady!”

“And such _strength_ …what superb calves…”

Arturia has never experienced a bath quite like this one. The maids’ thoroughness in their task is extraordinary: from the backs of her ears to the spaces between her toes (and, after some reassurance on their part, between the cheeks of her backside), her flesh is rendered spotless. And all the while, she is cradled by tender beauties the likes of which angels might envy.

“My Lady,” the head maid’s whisper tickles Arturia’s wet hair, “the oil is ready for you.”

Much to Arturia’s disappointment, she needs two maids on either side to help her out of the bath and onto the linen-covered table waiting a short distance away. _There went my strength..._ As she rests her head on the plump pillow at the table’s head, she can hear the other maids climbing out after her, speaking in hushed excitement.

“Thank you for presenting your back to us, my Lady,” the head maid says, once all have been assembled. “This way, the more difficult areas will be taken care of faster.” Once again, she claps her hands twice, and the others take their places on either side of the table. “We begin on your signal…”

“…Very well,” Arturia says, her heart still pounding in her chest, “please begin.”

If she thought the bath was an endurance test, in some ways this is far worse in terms of sheer pleasure.

“Girls, please remember to work the oil in thoroughly,” the head maid says, as the other maids gently massage every individual muscle of Arturia’s back and thighs. “If you require… _relief_ …please tend to each other.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they whisper with obvious delight, and…is it Arturia’s imagination, or are some of them kissing above her?

“My Lady,” one of the maids coos, her fingers rubbing along Arturia’s inner thighs, “does this please you?”

Arturia hums in approval. “What of all of you? If you need aid, it is only fair that I assist you. Is it not?”

The maids gasp in shock and begin whispering to each other in haste. _Did I say something wrong? Oh, dear…_

Before she can apologize, the head maid makes a proclamation: “If our Lady wishes it, you may relieve us after we’ve anointed you. Until then, we must continue.”

The muted hubbub dies down, replaced with the slippery sounds of oil on skin and lips against lips. Arturia lies as still as she can, even as small, soft fingers cup and shape her plump backside with obvious admiration. _Everything feels so wonderful…I wish it wouldn’t end!_

“Ma’am,” says the maid attending Arturia’s backside, “should we turn our Lady over, now?”

“Yes, it should be time.”

Arturia allows them to ease her onto her back without complaint. She does, however, make note of which maid’s damp thighs are trembling the most, and whose breath is most ragged.

“Your gaze is so heated, my Lady…!”

One of the maids actually turns her head to one side with a bashful smile. “Oh, if I meet your eyes, I may melt into foam!”

“Then please look at me, my Lady.” Another maid flows her hand like waves over Arturia’s breast, stroking her nipple into hardness with her thumb. The woman’s eyes are dark as a moonless night, and as enchanting.

On and on it goes, with oil-drenched hands loving every inch of Arturia’s body, praising her as if she is an angel descended from the heights of Heaven. Their touch is never ending, as waves never cease crashing on the shore. Feet, toes, thighs, navel, breasts…all are caressed until Arturia’s back arches off the table, eager for further pleasure.

Especially one place, which has yet to be touched.

“Ma’am, our Lady’s sex is stirring…what should we do?”

“Oh, heavens, I wish to touch it so!”

“I fear I may starve if I never taste it…”

A tongue pink as candy begs without words.

Arturia stares up at the flushed, lustful faces above her, the deliciously wanton scent of their arousal burning her reason to ashes. “Please, good ladies…attend to it.”

“However,” the head maid says with gentle sternness, “you must not achieve release. And we must still anoint you there, as the ritual demands. Is that clear to everyone?”

Arturia nods, and the maids follow suit.

The head maid smiles. “One at a time, then. I shall go first, of course!” Covering her hands liberally in rose oil, she slinks to the end of the table and stands facing Arturia’s feet. “My Lady, please lift your knees to your chest.”

Arturia does so, blushing at the delighted cooing from the audience that follows. Cool air tickles between her thighs, emphasizing her wetness even further.

“Lovely,” the head maid says, reaching out and with feather-softness pulling Arturia’s swelling nether lips between thumb and forefinger: first the right, then the left. “They’re as pink as a rose…”

“There’s a bit of wetness,” someone remarks in a hushed whisper, and the maid who claimed starvation gently scoops it up from Arturia’s inner thigh, licking her fingers as if they are coated in honey.

The head maid clicks her tongue. “Now, now, no more of that.” Dipping her head down to between Arturia’s legs, she bestows gentle kisses upon the tiny crown of her sex, sending swift tingles of pleasure along her veins. “Ah, yes…you’re as sweet as I hoped, my Lady.”

Arturia trembles and bites her lip.

“My Lady, may I use your hand?” the black-eyed maid asks boldly, her thighs rubbing together with obvious eagerness.

“I want to as well!” The shy maid’s hips bump against the table, jostling Arturia and causing the head maid’s lips to graze past her nub of pleasure.

Arturia barely collects herself. “O-Of course. Please, teach me how you’d wish to be touched.”

Bending her concentration into pleasing her eager maids helps keep her from asking for what cannot be given. The head maid’s touch is far too gentle—and yet, that is what is required. She mustn’t complain. Besides…the sensation of such hot, pliant walls of flesh undulating against her fingers is captivating.

“Oh, yes, there…!” The black-eyed maid’s long hair flows about like a horse’s mane as she ruts against Arturia’s fingers, her damp curls tickling Arturia’s palm.

The shy maid babbles something about thanks, squeezing down on Arturia with a grip tight enough to grant the sweetest ache in her bones.

“I’m finished,” the head maid says, and another maid takes her place, caressing the whole of Arturia’s throbbing sex until pleasure numbs its very core.

Then a new maid replaces that one, and the cycle begins again: pleasing and being pleased, tasting sweet nectar and being tasted in return. Arturia drinks in the debauched expressions on her maids’ faces as they shudder and cry out in climax, their beautiful lips parting and their eyes brimming with awe at their good fortune. After all, they are reveling in what she cannot.

“Surely,” Arturia begs after what feels like hours, “ _surely_ I may have a small respite from this?”

The head maid sighs, looking genuinely disappointed. “Alas, my Lady, after we clean your hands and mouth again, we must leave you to the ritual. Later on, perhaps…”

“Yes, we would gladly serve you again, my Lady!”

“Oh, you could love us for _hours_ and we’d remain unsatisfied.”

Arturia rasps out a desperate laugh. “If you continue like this, I’ll have no choice but to stay!”

The head maid sighs again with affectionate exasperation. “Oh, dear. Then we must work quickly and send you on to resume the ritual, as is proper!”

The maids wipe Arturia’s hands clean and re-apply the oil with brisk professionalism. Dressing her in a simple, white sheer nightgown is even more briskly done: all she need do is lift her arms up while they ease the gown over her head. It’s of a proper fit, the hem dancing along her ankles, but…the lack of undergarments ensures her heartbeat never slows in her chest.

“Thank you all.” She clears her throat and does her best to regain composure. “Now, where do I travel from here?”

“The left tower, my Lady. But directions will be given by…someone else.” The head maid smiles as the others giggle mischievously around her.

By now Arturia is growing used to such odd instructions. With one last “Thank you,” she leaves through the same door she came from, the warm, hard stone giving way to soft carpeting beneath her bare feet.

\---

She looks around the long hallway, trying to find some sort of guide in the silent paintings and flickering candles in their brass holders. No such luck. _Perhaps I’m to wait for further instruction?_ Standing like this, with sticky trickles of arousal clinging to her thighs beneath her nightgown, makes her feel exposed. Watched.

_…Mistress?_

Arturia jumps at the low, breathy whisper that echoed from where, she knows not. It’s a man. “Who’s there?” she asks with all her newfound authority.

 _At last, you’ve arrived._ A new whisper, a little more self-assured but no less eager. Another man, if the baritone is any indication. _We await you at the left tower. Come to us, Mistress…_

 _Yes, please, come!_ The first whisperer continues: _You must take the stairs to your left, as far as they can go._

Something about the whisperers’ voices spurs her into action. She follows their instructions, her knuckles white on the smooth cherrywood railing and the cold stone steps chilling her feet.

_You’ve reached the top? Excellent. Now, open the door—_

_—Oh, Mistress,_ hurry _, we beg you!_

With a trembling hand, Arturia turns the icy bronze knob and pushes the door open. The wood makes the slightest creak as she steps inside, the door closing behind her with a feeling of finality.

A blond man sits cross-legged in a red plush divan turned almost black in the light of the hearth encased in brick beside it. He is clad in a red waistcoat trimmed with gold pinstripes, with an ink-black shirt underneath it with frilled sleeves that nearly eclipse his knuckles. His trousers are black as well. Only a ruby-pinned white cravat and frothy sash keep him from blending into the shadows entirely.

He looks up at her, his crimson eyes drinking her in. “There you are, Mistress. We’ve been expecting you.” He flicks a glance toward the bear rug on the floor, where another man sits. “Haven’t we, Diarmuid?”

“Of course!” The man called Diarmuid glides to his feet, and it’s only then that Arturia realizes he’s wearing far less than his companion: a black sleeping shirt to match his rumpled, dusky curls, and nothing more. His long, muscled legs are a stark contrast to the blond man’s near-total coverage. “Welcome, Mistress,” he murmurs, his bronze eyes almost the color of the flickering flames behind him.

“I am Gilgamesh,” the blond man declares, “and this is my…or rather, _your_ Diarmuid.” He chuckles, a seductive rumble. “Of course, as our Mistress, I admit that you have authority over myself as well.”

Despite the dim light, the men’s milky-white fangs are impossible to miss.

Arturia stares between them, trying to find the words. “My apologies, but I don’t understand. Are you…vampires?”

“Did the letter not explain _again_?” Gilgamesh sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “This has happened twice, now...oh, very well. Yes, we are vampires—does that concern you?”

“Well—only if you intend to turn me.” Arturia’s chest hurts at the thought.

“Oh, no, not at all! Diarmuid is the only fledgling I intend to have. We are… _a part_ …of this castle. ‘Haunting’ it, if you will. But if we are survive, we need someone to serve. In other words, blood in exchange for pleasure.”

“Why not the maids?” Arturia fights back a smile. “They seem quite willing to fulfill your wishes.”

Gilgamesh’s headache seems to have passed, for he rests his hand on his knee. “They _are_ lovely, aren’t they? Our late Mistress—your sister, yes?—trained them well. But they will not suffice. Our Master or Mistress must select the next candidate themselves.”

“We bind ourselves to each new owner of the castle,” Diarmuid explains. “You could call it a hand-fasting; a year and a day is all we need. Unless you find us pleasant company, that is.”

“Of course, we have no intention of offering you nothing in return. As our Mistress, we serve at your pleasure.” Gilgamesh smiles slyly, showing a hint of perfect white teeth. “If you wish, we can demonstrate. The ritual has already begun simply by you choosing to bathed and oiled—we can take our time from here.”

“…Very well,” Arturia says, and takes the divan Gilgamesh vacates. As they move past each other, she feels a warm gust of air cross her flesh—did he just sniff her nape?

Gilgamesh’s next act banishes that question from her mind entirely.

“Diarmuid is beautiful, isn’t he?” He takes a seat beside Diarmuid on the bear rug, stroking those rumpled curls between his fingers. “I adore the taste of him so.” The tip of his ruby tongue glides out to trace Diarmuid’s perfect bow-shaped lips in a slow, teasing repetition, until they part to allow him inside.

Arturia has never seen two men kissing before. The convent’s rare words about such “forbidden matters” only spurs her interest. She leans forward, her white-knuckled hands clasped in her lap, watching attentively as Gilgamesh and Diarmuid’s beautiful mouths join and part and join again in a leisurely dance.

That is, until Diarmuid pulls away, his cheeks charmingly flushed. “Sire…your clothes must be stifling.” His fingers flow over Gilgamesh’s buttons, baring his bronzed flesh one row at a time.

“Thank you, my dear.” Gilgamesh runs his hands from Diarmuid’s nape to his chest, slipping beneath the white shirt to find and fondle the rosy crests of his nipples. “These are hardening _quite_ nicely.”

It must be a struggle for Diarmuid to remain focused; his breathing is brisk and heavy with each teasing pinch and flick. “Are—are you enjoying this, Mistress?”

Arturia nods, her mouth too dry to speak.

Gilgamesh’s low, rumbling chuckle sends a pleasant shiver up her spine. “Mistress, you aren’t the only one who has been brought to the brink of climax only to be torn away from it this evening.” He shrugs out of his many layers, left with only a chain of gold dripping with rubies about his trim waist…and a delicate cage of gold mesh trapping his loins. “We two have been playing with ourselves like this for hours now…”

“Does it hurt?” Arturia asks worriedly.

“Not particularly. And furthermore…” Gilgamesh sniffs the air and turns to look at her, his pupils wide and dark as a starless night sky. “…Mistress, your scent is so captivating.”

“That it is,” Diarmuid murmurs, crawling closer. “Mistress, please…may we drink from you a bit?”

“Y-Yes,” Arturia agrees, unwilling to say no to such urgent expressions. “What must I do?”

“Simply sit back and let us take care of everything.” Gilgamesh smiles and crawls over to face her, delicately lifting the hem of her gown. The brush of fabric tickles her sensitive flesh. “Oh, _yes_ …this will be a sumptuous feast indeed!”

“I wouldn’t be so certain.” Arturia shifts awkwardly in her seat. “You see, I have never lain with a man. I'm an ex-novice to a nunnery, in fact—”

“—Is that so?” Gilgamesh smiles and licks his lips. “In that case, we shall do our utmost to ensure leaving the convent was the best decision you ever made.”

“Sire…may I do the honors?”

Gilgamesh looks ready to agree until he shakes his head. “While I _would_ allow you to cut in under other circumstances, this time _I_ desire a taste first.” His nose tickles her dusting of pubic hair as he drinks in her scent with a stunning lack of shame. “What a lovely perfume you have, Mistress…!”

It takes all of Arturia’s willpower not to buck her hips hard enough to bruise him.

“While the neck may be traditional,” Gilgamesh says, changing his focus to her thigh instead, “this area has a unique allure all its own.” Kisses hot as brands grace her flesh with their presence, followed by a flicker of wet tongue to send a tremble to her core.

Diarmuid is all atremble as well. “So beautiful…” Moving to a kneeling position at Arturia’s side, he dips his head down to the column of her neck. “Mistress, may I see to you here?”

Arturia nods, hesitantly easing a thumb inside his mouth and over his fangs. They seem as sharp as her canines, nothing remarkable. Then she feels and hears his breath catch, the hot air tickling her skin. Her heart trembling with excitement, she slips her thumb out and offers up her throat.

“My thanks, Mistress,” Diarmuid whispers, and drenches the curve of her neck with kisses wet with passion. “This will… _mm_ …ensure your blood sings.”

At first, Arturia doesn’t understand. Then it dawns on her: just as Gilgamesh is doing below her waist, Diarmuid is turning this chosen area flushed and tingling with blood, and thus easier to… _feed_ upon. Little by little, she slumps in the chair, her body growing weak as a newborn foal.

Gilgamesh’s soft laughter rumbles against her thigh, his fangs rasping sweetly against blossoming gooseflesh. “It seems I must make haste!” And with a faint rasp, he bites down, turning her nerves into kindling.

Arturia lets out a shaky breath, unsure of what to think or do in the wake of the molten heat trickling from her thigh to her belly, turning it taut.

Diarmuid follows his elder's lead, his fangs piercing her neck with the same fluidity of his bow earlier. His low moan is a seductive hum against her flesh, sending yet more melting passion through her nerves.

 _God, such pleasure…!_ Yet what a surreal pleasure it is. She can _feel_ Gilgamesh and Diarmuid suckling at her like babes at their mother’s breast, drinking her blood as if they’re dying of thirst. Each wet pull of their lips sends fresh, electric desire throbbing to her loins.

“My…apologies,” she says in a heated voice, clutching at their heads in a desperate bid for something to hold on to in this strange, too vivid yet too distant moment. “I-I fear I’m nearing my limit—”

“Good, Mistress,” Gilgamesh says with a moan, freeing her flesh and turning his attention between her thighs instead. “Diarmuid, continue drinking!” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes glowing with lust. “I will serve her here.”

Diarmuid responds with increased fervor, lapping up the stray droplets of blood dripping down Arturia’s neck with hot little breaths of desire.

Gilgamesh settles before her eager arousal, teasing it with gossamer kisses and licks not unlike the maids’ earlier. “So succulent and sweet,” he praises, his voice drenched in passion. “The maids played with you more thoroughly than the ritual required…but that’s understandable.”

He continues playing with her for what feels like hours. Just as her desire is ready to crest, he pulls away, leaving her frantically grinding against air. Then—once she’s whimpering to his satisfaction—he dips back down again, letting her feel every glistening inch of his tongue as it slowly drives her mad.

Diarmuid is hardly helping: each sultry swallow of blood and loving moan against her neck melts her thoughts like butter. Of the two, he seems the most eager to please…which means that in watching his sire, he shares his Mistress’ sweet torment. 

“Stop teasing,” Arturia attempts to demand, but her words come out as a longing whisper instead.

“In a moment,” Gilgamesh says playfully, before resuming his overly-soft touch. He drinks her wetness with as much enthusiasm as he did her blood…even as he doesn’t give much respite in the process.

“That was an order.” _This_ time her voice remains steady.

Gilgamesh’s moan of assent tingles against her aching sex. He subsumes himself fully in it, feasting upon her swollen folds and tingling nub, his eyes never leaving hers. Steady, warm hands guide her thighs upwards, giving him more room.

“Look at him, Mistress,” Diarmuid whispers beguilingly. “My Sire has tasted all the pleasures the world can offer…and he shares them with us.” A soft, hungry moan. “Can you feel how his tongue dances along your trembling bud, how his full lips suck at your opening petals? All he has learned, he will perform for you…and so will I, if you wish.” 

Arturia can barely think, now. All she knows is that release is close and being guided ever onward by Diarmuid and Gilgamesh’s loving caresses.

“Are you close?” Diarmuid begs. “Please, let us see our Mistress’ pleasure!” He drinks from her neck again, as if to tide himself over.

Arturia’s climax washes over her like waves of fire, her hips thrusting into Gilgamesh’s face in time with the frantic, ravenous pulsing of her overwhelmed sex. With wanton shamelessness, he follows her lead, the sounds coming from him lewd and loud as he swallows every last drop.

“God…I…” Arturia hiccups and clasps an embarrassed hand over her mouth. “P-Pardon me.” 

“There, there, Mistress.” Diarmuid’s lips press comfortingly against her cheek. “If you need to rest, we certainly can.”

“Whatever our Mistress desires.” Gilgamesh crawls out from between her legs, wiping his drenched face with obvious satisfaction. “Whether you would have us play with each other to the edge of climax, or have both of us filling you at once, or merely keep you company until dawn…all that and more is within your grasp.”

Arturia mulls over her options, her mind fogged over with the sweet haze of pleasure she just experienced. “If possible, I would like to experience ‘the edge of climax’ again myself. It felt…wonderful.”

Gilgamesh and Diarmuid share a glance, their smiles sly and sweet.

“As our Mistress commands,” Diarmuid says, giving a little bow.

“In that case, we should remove our bindings.” Hooking his thumb and forefinger beneath the edge of the gilded cage and pulling it away, Gilgamesh slowly opens his prison, sighing with relief as his plump, lustful erection bounces free. “…There. Well, Mistress?” He glides the flushed sheath down a bit, revealing a swollen, rosy cap. “Does my desire please you?”

“And mine as well?” Diarmuid’s arousal stands equally-thick and hard between his legs, with slightly less skin covering the top.

“Hmm…as I’ve never seen such things before, I cannot say.” Arturia tentatively reaches out and strokes her fingers along their hardness, impressed by the smoldering heat rolling off them. “Goodness!”

“What a splendid reaction!” Gilgamesh runs the tip of a finger over his cap, smearing wetness not unlike Arturia’s over its smoothed ridges. “It will be _most_ amusing for your ‘toys’ to toy with you, Mistress.”

“Sire,” Diarmuid murmurs, sinking to his knees in front of him, “before that…I wish to worship you. May I?”

“If Mistress wishes.”

Arturia straightens her back into as regal as position as she can manage. “I do.” She tilts her head and smiles, thinking of something pleasant. “Bring him to the brink, but no further. And do so slowly.”

Diarmuid’s chuckle is full of mischief as he swallows his sire down to the root in agonizing increments, with a firm grip Gilgamesh’s slim waist to keep him still.

“Spoken like a true Mistress,” Gilgamesh purrs, tipping his head back in ecstasy and giving himself over to Arturia’s will. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :D Feedback is appreciated.


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